


you're just probably alright, but under these lights you look beautiful

by jramlee (manilow)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Enemies to Lovers, English Premier League, Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Ugly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27559843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manilow/pseuds/jramlee
Summary: When the final whistle blows, and the ninety minutes are up, Nicky and the man who made him fall both leave lasting impressions on one another. Despite the many other things that could be running through Nicky’s mind—post-game debriefings, drinking his sorrows away down at the pub, and having to make those social media posts to thank the fans—Al-Kaysani takes up all that space and starts making a home there.or Nicky moves to the Premier League and falls in love.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	you're just probably alright, but under these lights you look beautiful

It’s the middle of the season and Nicky thinks he should leave Roma, like as soon as he can. Like right now.

Because let’s be honest, he’s not getting any younger and surprisingly, they actually _want_ him at Arsenal. He knows this for a fact because they relay this information to him as if they have done it a thousand times before, something along the lines of _’We want you here because we are a prestigious club and are in desperate need of someone to help save us from this shit-defence hell we are in...yada…yada…’_

Also, what they don’t tell him but Nicky is already aware of is that they have just appointed a new manager and word on the street is that she isn’t really fond of losing (especially not when her last team sacked her for it). He doubts it would affect his decision much but no one really joins an _English_ side without actually having a good as hell reason to; he’s seen the ones who left for the chance to get their name on a shirt, playing for clubs that would bring them to even bigger clubs yet, came back without a single cap to their name. Or the ones who thought it would get them rubbing shoulders with the players who had already made it big.

There are inevitably a number of difficulties, little quirks that arose in a move like this, the most crucial being that he’d solely be a defensive centre-back. Where composure and intelligence is key, he’d be making the important decisions, taking the big hits. Often Nicky was known for his observational skills, an awareness about the people around him. But what most people shop for on the transfer market is always to do with technical skills.

Because it’s hardly any news but they don’t play football the same way he’s used to in the Premier League, most people like to say it’s very competitive there—most people being almost any pundit across all major televised sport channels—but he calls bullshit because every league is meant to be like that. Footballers were just like any other athlete, and athletes only ever do what they do best when in competition, it’s the only way they are able to prove themselves. A Sunday five-a-side game with his cousins is no where near being as rewarding as scoring a winning goal in a Coppa Italia final. Competition is what brings meaning to winning and losing or else it wouldn’t matter at all.

Another factor to consider is the most obvious one, that is, that he’d be leaving home. Just until internationals of course, but that would only be for two weeks before he’s back to getting used to the cold weather and having to find new places to eat. But Nicky thinks it shouldn’t be a big deal, if he were to believe that home was defined by geographical lines and timezones, it wouldn’t be a very promising career. Most players will only want what they don’t have, call it a _‘grass is greener on the other side_ ’ type of thing and Nicky just wants to quell the unrest in his heart at the prospect of something more, and he doesn’t see himself being able to do that without moving on and grabbing opportunities that are laid on silver platters for him. What a waste it would be to never know what lies ahead, nor to be a part of it.

Plus he thinks of a few who have made it out just fine, some even better than fine. From the top of his head he lists: _Zola, Di Canio, Ravanelli._ All great players of their time, all of which left home and have set themselves a place in history, but only because they took the chances. Nicky then thinks why not? He’s got nothing to lose, they would always welcome him back to Olimpico if it all goes to shit.

So he signs his name on the dotted line of a contract on transfer deadline day and is getting sent for a medical checkup in London, it’s clockwork,—he runs on a treadmill for about twenty minutes with electro pads stuck to his chest, to doing kick ups and ice breakers with his new coach; she introduces herself as Andy, it makes him smile because he wants to hear the story behind it, and then getting told his first game will be against Liverpool the following day—and he’s already exhausted before six pm.

He watches cars drive pass out his hotel window that night, they help to pass the time and it’s also calming, as if they drive away with his worries. _‘It’s normal to feel nervous, you only just got here-’_ Andy told him that afternoon, he felt impressed that she could read all of that in just one glance over his face, it makes him feel so exposed out here, wondering how many other eyes were watching, waiting for the moment he slips up. _‘-But I’m going to need you to start getting focused, we’ve got a lot of work to do.’_ She says, her face unimpressed and ice-cold. Nicky only nods back. It’s gotten serious even before he plays his first match but he’s excited for the challenge.

And maybe it would be bad luck to say he can already see a life here, much like the one he had back home but it wouldn’t be the same, because it’s not meant to be that way. Not when he has already made a move this big. But just like how he has yet to see wins and losses—and all that _doubt_ , given that it’s still very present in his mind now—Nicky does not know how the rest of his life is etched out in the lines the universe draws when it places him in every new phase of his life, in every new place he’ll move to.

There is however a soft sigh of hope that he exhales when he dreams that night. Of loud jeers screaming, of people chanting and singing at the top of their lungs in a stadium, and of the way it all makes him feel like his life is about to change.

* * *

The next day his name is listed on the starting eleven. His first game of the season, and much like every other game, it’s tense, relentless, everyone is on their feet. _Pressure, pressure, pressure._ And despite the multiple crosses and Arsenal pressing forward with counter-attacks they can't find a way to get pass and score.

It’s simple enough when Andy draws it up on a whiteboard three minutes before they head out the tunnel, with the Xs and Os marked hurriedly yet still distinguishable, and it’s even simpler when his new teammate is screaming at him from a corner flag to get back into position so he can make this free kick. Nicky knows where he has to be, what he has to do.

But Nicky has never felt this, the aggression, the quick feet, and the tactical set-pieces he can barely keep up with. He runs back and forth across both sides of the field, catching his breath and breaking a sweat. The fact that he knows there are people at home watching this and probably thinking he looks like an utter fool makes him want to bury himself in a hole, the fear gnaws at him, imagining himself losing in his first match and having to deal with the aftermath of it.

He feels it in the abrupt, sharp jolts of anxiousness that hits him in the chest every time he catches the red-clad Liverpool wingers running forward, their number ten bursting through the box, ready for their cross-ins.

When they pass him the ball, he’s faster than any other player, ball rolling around between his feet like a dance. Behind him circles a squad, a _team_ that acts like one, all of them united by the same strange, inexplicable joy as they play with force and agility, passing and breaking through Arsenal’s flaws, they see it all. Too much space _here_ , no one’s tracking them _there_. Liverpool tear through their defence with such ease it’s almost embarrassing.

And the score isn’t settled until the end of the match but Nicky wishes it would just stop because they’re already four goals down and there’s still about twenty minutes to go.

Liverpool’s forward is enchanting up close, a man who is fearless, passionate, with brown eyes Nicky can’t tear away from. On this field, Nicky can see that he is a striker with an ambition, a purpose that leads to nothing other than to win, because only players like those stand out from the rest. Nicky hasn’t had the chance to take it all in yet because he’s still trying to save whatever dignity they have left as a team, but if it’s any consolation, he has seen good, has also seen great, but this man alone is brilliant and wild and perfect. _Breathtaking._

His heart is beating in his chest, and Nicky is absolutely done for.

Nicky runs forward to try and make this steal, to stop him in his tracks, trapping the ball with his own feet, they fumble for it before Nicky gains the upper hand, pushing past and heading for goal. Their striker is on his toes, chasing after him. Nicky can feel the wind on his face, sharp and brittle and he can see the outline of goal posts from across the field, moving closer.

The screams and cheers from the crowd are deafening, the shouts urging him toward putting one in the back of the net. He inhales and _shoots._

There’s a gasp, a collision, and instead of celebratory cries, Nicky goes down screaming in pain.

* * *

The thing about getting injured is that nobody tells you what it feels like. Because what really goes through their minds is (1) damage control on injury, how bad of a wound, break, or sprain it is and (2) if there was a way to salvage whatever limb is left working to make it to end of ninety minutes–not forgetting the extra added time.

However, Nicky can barely do that when the pain is moving up, up and searing into the back of his head, his eyelids, it’s immense. There’s a ringing in his ears as his breathing mellows out.

Nicky presses his palms against the artificial grass, it’s pointy and rough, feels like plastic and he believes it to be but the dirt in his mouth makes him think otherwise. He can still hear a rumbling in the distance, jeers and screams mixing into one that spells out their disfavour at what just happened. The whistling is echoing off the walls. There are curse words and every possible vulgar hand gesture known to mankind being thrown out in the stands of Anfield. The V-sign is new, he still has yet to learn about but shall ask Andy what it means later.

Somewhere in the middle of him getting back up whilst trying his best to ignore the pain in his knee, he catches sight of an awfully bright pair of neon boots in his face. They aren’t the same as the black ones he’s got on but when Nicky reaches out, a warm hand is being placed into his, pulling him up and onto his feet.

Before he gets to say thank you or get a word in, they speak first, “Next time, eyes ahead. Not on the ball.” Is what he hears, he dusts bits of grass off his swollen knee, a bruise already forming there and looks up.

It’s Liverpool’s divine number ten.

Nicky can see that he isn’t facing the same fate when he looks practically untouched despite being the one who brought him down, he moves backwards, raking his eyes over Nicky’s body–and being too obvious about it–before stopping at his knee, his lips curl into a smirk that Nicky believes is wholly contemptuous. It’s so smug, and mean, he wants to punch the bastard right in his teeth, rub that smirk right off his face. The gall, the audacity. He can feel his anger simmer at the edges of his body, blood rushing to his ears and knuckles going white in his fist. The man doesn’t apologise, or say anything else for that matter.

“Fuck off.” Nicky sneers.

The man stood in front of him breaks out a smile, eyes crinkling and dimples hollowing at the sides,—he is the picture of a glistening sweat-covered face, flushed pink from the tip of his ears to the cut of his cheekbones by the labour of playing a full game. His voice is low, like he’s speaking only to Nicky, just for him–it travels and sinks in Nicky’s chest, meeting his heart for the first time, it’s as expressive as his face, like he radiates so much emotion it seeps out his pores, you see it in his smile, and in the lines that mark his skin—if Nicky was to be wrong about him, that is, if he were anything but an egotistical asshole, if he weren’t the person who’s making Nicky feel all these confusing things at once, Nicky would take being wrong over being into this version of him any day.

It is right in this moment that Nicky wants to take back every nice thing he ever thought of him. His heart betrays him too often, why do all strikers have to be a bunch of self-centred, big shots who have zero knowledge of anything besides themselves.

“Welcome to England, Di Genova.” He leaves it at that, a cheeky glint in his eye, before turning around and running back to the rest of his team. Nicky gets a view of the letters spelling out his last name: _Al-Kaysani,_ dipping and curving over the muscle of his back. Nicky doesn’t feel like he’s as perfect as he first thought, in fact, Nicky just feels upset that he believed he was nothing but.

As Nicky stands silently bewildered on enemy’s ground, it occurred to him that maybe he had made a grotesque mistake; it was his fervent wish to turn back the clock and insist that he were not here in pain and carrying the weight of loss, not at Arsenal v Liverpool, but preferably in a place where the uncertainty of winning wouldn’t hang in the air. That he could go back to when it was definite and inevitable.

He might have forgotten where he was if it weren’t for the home crowd cheering in resounding pride and glee. It’s not meant to be rainbows and sunshine, never once did he expect to win a game the minute he got here, he was not that stupid to think it possible when he’s playing against one of the biggest clubs in the world. What he does expect however lies at the bottom of his stomach when he starts to wonder if he’ll ever get better at this, or if he should have left Serie A in the first place.

When the final whistle blows, and the ninety minutes are up, Nicky and the man who made him fall both leave lasting impressions on one another. Despite the many other things that could be running through Nicky’s mind—post-game debriefings, drinking his sorrows away down at the pub, and having to make those social media posts to thank the fans—Al-Kaysani takes up all that space and starts making a home there.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @nolanstellar.


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